


Charm'd By Thy Beauty

by CracklPop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Bargaining With Fairies Is A Bad Plan, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22650700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Claudia Stilinski yearns for a child, and makes an unwise bargain with the king of the Court. Seventeen years later, the king comes to collect the debt.This is for HakeberHooligan's Monster Week 2020 prompt dragons/ gods and goddesses/ fae/ scales. I would call this fic the mildest of monster f*cking.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 28
Kudos: 345
Collections: Monster Fucker Week 2020





	Charm'd By Thy Beauty

PART I

Claudia’s grandmother told her never to bargain with Them. No matter what you wanted, no matter how badly you needed it, Babcia said, the price was always too dear. Babcia had a thousand stories of trickster Wrózki and tragic Rusalka—she filled Claudia’s mind with images of unearthly beauty and century-long revels, with unexpected eyes in mushroom patches and wild, sentient trees. 

Young Claudia spent hours listening to her grandmother talk of the wicked Południca, the cruel Erlkönig, a vine-trailing Leshy. The stories thrilled and terrified Claudia in equal measure. They spoke of brave heroes and heroines—voyagers and warriors and plucky youngest sons and daughters whose cleverness conquered the whims and wiles of supernatural creatures. 

Claudia’s mother was clearly humoring Babcia when she nodded along at the older woman’s warnings of milk-drinking pixies and monstrous red caps, but Claudia’s father, who was Babcia’s only son, often wore a troubled look. Claudia overheard them once, arguing in vehement whispers. Her Papa didn’t want Claudia involved with Babcia’s ways and Babcia’s secrets. 

It was the first time Claudia truly believed that Babcia’s stories might be more than myths. But Claudia’s parents visited Babcia less and less as their daughter grew, and Claudia’s tiny flame of belief was easily guttered. By the time Claudia was a teenager and Babcia died quietly in her sleep, the small book and pouch of dried flowers willed to Claudia had no meaning beyond her own sentiment and a handful of dusty memories. 

Claudia’s Papa lived long enough to see her graduate from college, get her first job, and fall in love with Noah Stilinski, a young police officer from Los Angeles who looked at her like she was the end of every search he’d undertaken. Claudia felt cold when they first kissed, then unbearably warm, as though she and Noah were bleeding into each other, inextricably twining together. 

They buried Claudia’s Papa two months after she married Noah, and Claudia clung to her new husband all the tighter for her loss. Her mother retired to a sunny home in Florida and the young Stilinski couple moved to the forest-bound little town of Beacon Hills, California. Noah took a job as a deputy in the sheriff’s department. Claudia worked in the school library and watched the children day in and day out, dreaming of having her own. 

At first when she didn’t conceive, Claudia blamed the stress of her father’s death. Then, after a year had gone by, she went to the doctor. She tracked and charted her body’s every sign with determined attention verging on obsession. She took medication, she lay still for insemination. As time passed without a pregnancy, the treatments left for her to try became too expensive. 

Claudia felt as though her body had betrayed her. She knew her response wasn’t rational, that her inability to sustain a life inside didn’t mean she couldn’t have a family. 

But her heart hurt, and when the doctor began to urge alternative paths to motherhood, Claudia went home and lay down and dampened her pillow with tears.

Noah came home early from work and held her close against his strong, flannel-clad shoulder. Claudia shuddered and wept and eventually felt hollowed-out and light-headed and empty. That night, while Noah slept in their bed, Claudia crept from their room to the home office she’d imagined would become a nursery and sifted teary-eyed through old photos of her childhood. 

When she reached the bottom of the box, her fingers brushed against something unexpected: Babcia’s bequest. Claudia gently shook the packet of dried flowers and herbs, then opened the leather-bound book with a bittersweet twist of her lips. She’d paged through it shortly after Babcia’s death, enjoying the strange words and fantastical illustrations. It seemed like a strange recipe book, but instead of food, the ingredients and steps were meant to make spells. Claudia had always assumed it was a silly but harmless nod to Babcia’s time sharing her love of myth and fairy tales with her granddaughter. 

She skimmed through the book by the dim light of the desk lamp, attention caught by one drawing in particular. It depicted a Wrózka king who was compelling but also faintly menacing even in two dimensions. The faded lettering above his head said Erlkönig, and Claudia stretched her memory back to hear Babcia’s quiet voice speaking of lost children and red berries and the ruler of an unearthly court. 

The text on the accompanying page was difficult to decipher, but Claudia’s eyes snagged on one clearly written phrase. 

… _he knows the true desires of the heart and can grant all things_ …

The summoning spell itself was much easier to read, and called for a mix of dried herbs and fresh flowers combined with a surprisingly simple ritual. Claudia, remembering giggling sleepover activities of ouija boards and darkened mirrors from her girlhood, felt slightly ridiculous as she traced her finger over the short list of ingredients. 

She tipped the contents of Babcia’s herb packet into her hand and inhaled lightly, finding nearly every ingredient for the spell in front of her was contained therein. It only lacked fresh roses and a thorn bloodied by her own body. Her eyes went to the robust bouquet of white roses Noah had brought home with him that afternoon. 

Claudia was gripped by a feverish excitement, suddenly and wildly determined to do this one last thing, this one last attempt to force her body to bear fruit before she accepted the inevitable and grieved a life that never was. 

The small kitchen was dark, but Claudia worked by moonlight spilling through window glass, fingers unexpectedly deft as she measured and weighed the strangely resilient herbs and dried flowers from Babcia, then rent silky rose petals into neat strips. After a quick breath, she pierced her skin with a rose’s thorn and tore it still dripping from the stem. 

She murmured the words from the book and left the small bowl of ingredients outside the door, where it sat in a wash of moon- and starlight. For a second, the night was still, so still Claudia felt as though every living creature held its breath. Then sound filtered through the silence and a nocturnal bird sang its song and Claudia sighed and shook her head, disbelief flitting across her features when she considered the last hour’s actions. 

_A spell_ , she thought with a certain wry amusement. Well, that was one way of dealing with the doctor’s prognosis. 

Claudia closed the back door and sank into a chair at the kitchen table, considering a calming cup of tea and picturing Noah’s warm arms and soft breath fondly. She should return to bed. She and Noah had more than one option for expanding their family. In the morning things would be brighter. 

She had just gotten to her feet when the back door flew open and a tall figure stood on the threshold. 

Claudia made several shocked, horrified noises and groped behind her for a knife from the block.

“I believe you requested my presence, dear lady,” the figure announced, its voice deep. 

Claudia’s fingers closed on a blade’s handle and she jerked it free to hold warningly in front of her. Embarrassingly, it was a paring knife. 

The stranger stepped forward then paused as moonlight glinted off the short blade. 

“Are you under the impression that toy is some sort of…weapon?” the intruder asked, sounding politely curious. 

Claudia glared at him and waved the knife menacingly. 

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Get out! I’ll—my husband will be here any second. He’s a cop. He has a gun.”

“But I was invited. Surely you recognize this visage?” The kitchen light blazed abruptly to life, revealing a stern, beautiful face made of clean and sharp lines. Blue eyes stared down at Claudia with humor and cruelty and she faltered, hardly noticing when the paring knife fell from her numb fingers. 

“Impossible,” she breathed as she saw the old illustration come to life before her. 

“Unlikely, shall we say?” the stranger corrected. “The king of the Court has come at your call. What is it that you wished? A bargain, perhaps?”

His gaze tracked over her body slowly, considering. Claudia trembled, images and words from Babcia tumbling in a welter of fear and hope and desperation in her mind. 

“A child,” she got out before her throat closed up. “I want a child.” She paused. “Erlkönig…?”

“I see.” He moved a step closer, towering over her not-insignificant height, and Claudia smelled damp soil and sweet blooms and something less easily defined, like heated glass or the blue burn of a flame. “Erlkönig.” He flicked his fingers dismissively. “An outdated name.” His eyes swept over the room and lingered for a moment on the still-open spell book. “Yet I may still grant all things. A child, hm?” 

He smiled then, and it was somehow more frightening than anything that had happened so far. Claudia bit her lip and swallowed down a dry throat, unwillingly transfixed by the way his perfectly shaped lips curved upward to reveal teeth sharper than any human’s. It did not detract from his coldly symmetrical features, but lent them a predatory cast that sounded warning alarms in Claudia’s brain. 

“Let us bargain, Claudia Zofia Gajos Stilinski,” he proposed. “I can ripen your womb—”

“I want a healthy, full-term pregnancy. No abnormalities in development, no issues with the birth, no childhood illnesses,” she interrupted. “And I want the baby to be mine and Noah’s. I don’t want anything…uncanny.” 

“So many demands,” the creature—Wrózka, Claudia supposed—sighed. “Still, I see the true desire of your heart. I can arrange a successful implanting. On the next new moon, your husband will get you with child. A boy, one who will have a life far beyond—” the Wrózka made a dismissive gesture at the cramped kitchen “—all of this.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Only that you cannot gain something for nothing. A bargain, that is all I suggest. A simple bargain, to give both of us what we desire.” 

“What do _you_ get from this bargain?” Claudia leaned back against the counter, her knees weak. 

“The joy of seeing your son take his place in my Court.” 

“And where is your Court?” Claudia hedged. 

“Everywhere and nowhere. He will be treated well, I assure you. He’ll want for nothing.”

“And when would he go?”

“The traditional age is seventeen.”

“So I would have seventeen years with my son and then you would take him away.”

“To a better existence. You see that, surely.” The sharp-toothed smile was back. 

“And if I refused you?”

“I would not advise that, dear lady.” The smile disappeared and one long-fingered hand reached out to grasp her by the chin. Claudia felt the Wrózka’s unnatural strength, despite the lightness of the grip. She shivered and he dropped his hand, smile returning. 

Claudia frowned. “What you want is for me to raise a boy for seventeen years and then turn him over to a king of a fantasy Court. This is…this is really…unlikely.” She rubbed her face and closed her eyes, wondering if the stranger would still be in front of her when she opened them. “I don’t know what is going on right now. You’re a very convincing hallucination.” 

She gave a short laugh when she raised her gaze to see that the king remained in front of her. His edges seemed less distinct, though, and as Claudia thought back on their conversation, on the idea of a fairy-tale creature somehow curing her infertility then whisking away her child, she became increasingly convinced this was a terrifying, unusually vivid dream. 

For a moment, though, she had believed again, as she had when hearing Babcia’s stories. It was nonsense, of course. Claudia bent to retrieve the paring knife and slid it back into the block, shaking her head. 

“I don’t know why I’m having this dream,” she muttered. “Maybe I’m sleepwalking right now.” 

“Do we have an agreement?” the dream-king asked. “You will have a son for the length of his childhood. Then I will have his name and his future.”

Claudia looked back up at him, still unsettled but calming down as she assured herself the encounter was entirely imaginary. 

“Sure, fairy-king of the everywhere-and-nowhere Court. Sure we do. You put Noah’s baby in this belly and I’ll see you again in a mystical seventeen-year future.” She shook her head again and pressed her fingertips to her eyes wearily. When she looked back over, the strange figure was gone. 

Claudia blinked. The back door was closed and locked. 

“Weird,” she murmured. “Am I asleep?” 

She pinched her arm gently and it hurt, but didn’t tell her whether or not she was conscious. She turned off the kitchen light and went back to her bedroom, snuggling close to Noah and remembering nothing more. 

The next morning, Noah nearly tripped down the stairs when he stumbled over an empty bowl on the back porch. He put it in the dishwasher without question, not wanting to nag his still-despondent wife. Claudia dismissed the disturbing dream she’d had the night before and went to work as usual. 

But when the new moon came and Noah made love to her with gentle but implacable motions, she felt disquieted despite his soothing hands. 

And when she took a pregnancy test and stared at the positive result, she couldn’t shake the icy cold that gripped her limbs for the rest of the day. 

There was a baby within her. A boy, the ultrasounds said. He was born in the spring after a pregnancy Claudia’s startled but pleased doctor described as _textbook_. 

Claudia held her infant close to her breast and whispered, for the first and last time, his true name. She had seventeen years, at least. Seventeen years to conceal her baby, seventeen years to outwit an uncanny king and keep her child from him. She cradled her son's small form and vowed to protect him as long as she drew breath.

PART II

_“Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;/Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch' ich Gewalt.”_

Stiles found the used bookstore just as winter was giving way to spring. The words _King Books_ were painted above an arched doorway, faded somewhat as if with age. He’d never noticed the storefront before, despite having spent all sixteen years of his life in the same small town. When he first saw the modest display window, stacked high with dusty hardcovers and dog-eared paperbacks, he just blinked at it for a moment, astonished. 

He turned his head and walked away a few steps, then looked back at the bookstore quickly, as though he thought it might disappear when he took his eyes off it. But there it was, still standing solid, a bookstore Stiles had somehow never noticed before. It was tucked between a run-down florist’s shop and the diner where he went when his dad was working one of his frequent double shifts and Stiles needed to be around other people instead of alone at home. 

Curiosity pushed him through the store’s entrance, and he heard the musical chime of a bell as the door closed behind him. Stiles hovered there, eyes taking in the haphazard arrangement of bookcases beneath dim but warm lighting. The paper-and-ink smell reminded him sharply and suddenly of his mother, and he indulged in the memory of her softly smiling face bent over him as they sat in the corner of the library and read book after book. 

“Welcome.” 

The voice was directly in front of him, and it startled Stiles badly. He hadn’t heard any footsteps, and the man who had spoken was not a comforting figure. 

Stiles tripped as he jerked backward, losing his balance. Before he fell, however, his arms were caught in a careful but hard grip and he found himself placed back on his feet in a matter of seconds. 

“Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat self-consciously and pulling at the bottom of his worn plaid shirt to straighten it. 

“Welcome to my shop,” the man said. 

“Uh, thanks. Again,” Stiles replied, getting his first good look at the store owner. He was tall and intimidatingly attractive, with unusually bright eyes that seemed to blink less often than was normal. “Do you…have you had this place for long? I’ve never…um, noticed it before.”

“It is a recent acquisition for me, yes,” the man answered. “Would you like to browse for a while? Are you looking for something in particular?” 

“Oh…just looking, I guess. I love books,” Stiles said, unnerved by the intensity of the man’s gaze and the dazzling perfection of his features.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the store,” the man said with a smile. “I’m Peter.” He held out his hand and raised dark brows. “And you are?”

“Stiles.” They shook hands, Stiles sure Peter-the-hot-bookstore-owner could feel how nervous he was from the clammy palm. 

“Stiles, hm? That’s an unusual name.” 

“It’s a nickname,” said Stiles, trying to discreetly wipe the moisture from his hands on his old jeans. 

“Oh?” Peter put a dry, warm hand on the base of Stiles’ spine to guide him deeper into the store. Stiles’ breath hitched a little at the unexpected intimacy, but he didn’t move away. 

“It’s from my last name. Stilinski.”

“Stiles Stilinski.” The syllables rolled around in Peter’s mouth and he looked amused. “Did your mother give you that name?”

“Nah, it was my dad. My mom just called me Mischief.” 

For a second, Stiles could swear he saw Peter’s lips tighten in frustration, but then they were curving back up into that enigmatic smile and Stiles mentally shrugged the feeling away. 

“Well, do let me know if you need any assistance,” Peter said. Stiles watched as he walked fluidly back to the half-hidden wooden desk that held the cash register. 

Although Peter seemed to focus entirely on writing in a set of antiquated-looking account books for the rest of Stiles’ time in the store, it felt more like he was watching Stiles. It was odd, but not entirely uncomfortable. There was something strangely exciting about the sensation of Peter’s attention. 

Stiles called a good-bye as he left the bookstore, and the sound of Peter’s returned _until next time_ echoed in his memory for the rest of the evening. 

There was a wildness about Peter, despite his elegant and immaculate appearance, Stiles thought as he lay in bed that night. He dreamed of roses and thorns and someone calling him by a name he couldn’t quite remember. 

The next day, during Stiles’ independent study period in the library, he found it difficult to focus on the books in front of him. Instead, he kept imagining the scents of rain-soaked earth and sharp-thorned roses. When Stiles looked around, though, he was alone save for the librarian. He frowned and gnawed on the end of his pen, staring at the circulation desk without really seeing it. 

The door to the library opened to admit a tall figure carrying a box of books. Stiles blinked rapidly, half-convinced he saw a crown of branches and berries threaded through the man’s dark hair. The image flickered then faded and Stiles shook his head to clear it, dropping his pen in the process. He looked back at the man and realized it was Peter the bookstore owner. 

Stiles’ heart beat faster and he tried to look busy and not as though he’d been staring. He tracked Peter’s progress from beneath his lashes, watching as the man walked to the circulation desk and deposited the books with the librarian. They chatted for a few minutes, voices friendly, before Peter guided the conversation to a close.

Instead of heading back out the door, however, Peter drew close to Stiles’ table and stopped just a few feet away. Stiles lifted his head and offered a hesitant smile.

“Hello again,” said Peter, blue eyes sharp on Stiles’ face despite his genial smile. 

“Hi,” Stiles said, then his mind blanked of anything further to contribute. 

“I noticed you looking at the history books yesterday,” Peter said, and presented Stiles with a small, leather-bound book on Polish kings and queens. “Your last name—it’s Polish, yes? I thought you might be interested in this. Maybe you have some of the royal names in your own family history.”

Stiles reached out to take the book with careful hands, his fingertips inadvertently brushing against Peter’s as he did. The contact sent a little shiver through him and he quickly brought the book down to his table. 

“Thanks,” said Stiles. “You didn’t have to—uh, that’s really thoughtful, I mean.”

Peter raised his eyebrows and gestured at the chair opposite Stiles, seating himself only when Stiles had nodded his agreement. There was an old-fashioned courtesy about all of Peter’s movements that Stiles found charming rather than stuffy.

“Do your parents share their names with any of those illustrious rulers?” Peter asked with a quirk of his lips. 

Stiles paged through the book, enjoying the hand-tinted portraits but upsettingly aware of how expensive the book must be. 

“This is too much,” he said, glancing up at Peter. He slowly held the book out for Peter to take back. “It’s too nice.”

“Nonsense,” Peter returned briskly, folding his hands together and pointedly refusing Stiles’ offer. “It’s been on my shelves for years. It’s time the book found a good home.” He held Stiles’ gaze until Stiles lowered the book again and flushed a little. “You may repay me by indulging my curiosity—are your parents to be found in that book?”

“Oh.” Stiles shook his head, not entirely clear why Peter cared what his parents were called, but willing to humor the giver of a generous gift. “No, my dad’s name is Noah. My mom…was Claudia.”

“Ah.” Peter’s face softened. “No longer with us, I take it. My condolences.”

Stiles shrugged. “I miss her, but it happened a long time ago.”

“And you? Did your mother name you after a prince, perhaps? A king?”

“No,” Stiles said, brow creasing. “I told you before…she called me Mischief, mostly. Why are you so interested?”

“I am a student of etymology,” replied Peter, crossing his legs and leaning back against the chair. “Names and word origins and linguistic history are hobbies of mine. There is an anthropological aspect as well, of course. In this country, there are generations where immigrants wish to conform to societal norms, so they name their children things foreign to their origin culture. Those same Bobbies and Susies and Karens and Michaels then reclaim—so to speak—their heritage and give their own offspring names from their grandparents’ homes.” Peter paused as Stiles absorbed this. “Is that the case in your family? Claudia and Noah returned to older naming conventions?”

“I guess?” Stiles bit his lip, the old reluctance coming over him in a powerful wave. “I’ve been Stiles most of my life, though, so it doesn’t really matter. What’s the sociological or anthropological—or whatever—reason for nicknames?”

“An interesting point—” Peter was cut off by the bell heralding the end of the period. “To be continued, I hope?” 

Stiles, caution forgotten, nodded enthusiastically. 

“I’m sure I’ll be in your shop again soon,” he said. 

Even though Stiles wanted _soon_ to mean _right after school_ , it was Friday, and he and Scott had been planning to go back to Scott’s place and spend the rest of the night gaming. Stiles drove them to the vet’s office first, so Scott could pick up his paycheck. He toyed impatiently with a brochure for microchipping pets while Scott exchanged pleasantries with his boss, Alan Deaton. 

Eventually, they both returned to the front, where Dr. Deaton removed the mangled brochure from Stiles’ fingers and shifted it out of his reach. 

“Big plans for the weekend, boys?” Alan asked politely. 

“Justice Monsters V,” Scott responded, pocketing his check. 

“With snacks,” Stiles added. “It’s my birthday tomorrow, so maybe cupcakes.”

“Try to get some sunshine,” Alan suggested with a sigh. 

“Maybe we’ll go to that new bookstore,” Stiles said. 

Alan’s eyes fixed on Stiles, suddenly alert. 

“New bookstore?” he asked. 

“Yeah…it’s near the diner? King Books. The owner is…he’s very, uh, nice. He donated some books to the school library. He told me he’s into—” Stiles cast his mind back to remember exactly what Peter had said. “Name origins?” 

“Names,” Alan repeated slowly. “True names?”

“What’s a true name?” Scott asked, brow wrinkled. 

“The key to your true self. Names are powerful things. Compelling,” Alan said. “Every one of us, no matter how uncanny, is answerable to a true name.” 

“Um.” Stiles edged toward the door. Scott’s boss was a good guy, but he had a tendency to say random, cryptic things then stare into the distance. It didn’t seem to bother Scott, but Stiles found it alternately creepy and annoying. 

“Scott Douglas McCall,” Scott threw in cheerfully. “There. Now you can command me to work more weekends, Dr. Deaton.” 

Alan’s gaze focused on the two boys again and his lips curved up in a rueful smile. 

“Have a pleasant weekend,” he said. “Take care.”

Stiles chose to interpret Dr. Deaton’s final words as optimistic rather than ominous. He gave the vet a nod and dragged Scott out as quickly as was polite. 

“What’s with your boss, seriously?” Stiles hissed as he started the Jeep. 

“What do you mean?” Scott blinked at him. 

“ _True names are powerful_ , blah blah blah,” Stiles snapped. “He’s weird.” 

“I think he’s just really into all that new age stuff. He has, like, a thousand crystals in one of his cabinets. And some of the herbs he grows are definitely for alternative medicine. But he’s all right. I trust him.” Scott shrugged and clearly dismissed the entire possibility of his boss as anything but a harmless eccentric. 

Which he could be, Stiles reasoned. For all Alan Deaton’s tendency toward unhelpful, mysterious-sounding pronouncements, he’d never been unsettling. Not like…not like some people. Although Peter was both unsettling and magnetic, a combination Stiles was realizing he couldn’t resist. 

Hours of Justice Monsters V broken only by breaks for food swallowed the remainder of Friday, and Stiles woke bleary-eyed on Scott’s couch Saturday morning. 

He examined himself in the mirror of Scott’s bathroom and decided seventeen looked a lot like sixteen. Noah had worked a double shift, and was likely just getting back home to sleep away most of the day before heading back out in the afternoon. It was fine. He knew his dad had something celebration-related planned for Sunday, and it wasn’t the first time Stiles had spent a birthday mostly alone.

Scott and Stiles shared a breakfast of marshmallow-filled cereal and cold pizza before Stiles made his way back home and into the shower. He leaned against the cool tile and let the hot water pound over his back, reddening the skin and warming his blood. 

He wondered if King Books was open yet. He wanted a present for himself, something just for him on the day of his real birthday.

Once Stiles was dressed, he flopped down onto his bed and looked through the book of royalty Peter had given him. All of Peter’s questions had stirred up long-buried memories and Stiles closed his eyes briefly at the thought of his mom’s last days. 

She’d seized on odd, nonsensical ideas and refused to budge on them. She’d said wild, hurtful things at times, convinced Stiles was trying to kill her. Then she’d collapse in teary remorse, begging him to forgive her. An hour later, she would clutch desperately at him, pleading with him to be careful. She was terrified of an imaginary, unseen figure. 

_He’s looking for you, Mischief. Don’t tell him, my Mietek. Don’t let him know. I had to protect you._

Stiles had soothed her to the best of his childish ability, but the fear hadn’t left her eyes. He wondered still what secret his mother had wanted him to guard. Claudia had never been quite like the mothers of Stiles’ friends, even before she got sick. 

She told wonderfully scary stories and would play with him—silly, make-believe games—for hours; they’d read together at the library and at home and she never tired of it. She delighted in inventing nicknames for him—Mischief stuck the longest, but it took nothing to prompt her to call him something new. Never mind that his real name was…. 

Stiles jerked as he realized he’d nearly fallen asleep over the book from Peter. What had he been thinking of? Claudia, probably. Old books always reminded him of his mother. He smiled a little sadly and put Polish Kings and Queens back on his bookcase. 

The sky outside his window was clear and bright and Stiles decided he’d bike over to King Books. The wind left him flushed and invigorated by the time he arrived at the store. He locked his bicycle up near the diner before pushing through the door to Peter’s domain. 

The lighting inside was somehow more golden than anything produced by lightbulbs Stiles was familiar with. If the sun could shine underground, Stiles imagined that the interior of King Books was how it would feel. 

Peter was leaning against the heavy, wooden desk near the back of the store, a white plate of dark-red cherries at his elbow. Stiles felt himself move toward Peter as though pulled by a tether. When Stiles was close enough to see the gleam of Peter’s eyes, he noticed the fruit didn’t entirely resemble cherries. 

“Good morning,” said Peter. “Would you care for one?” He lifted the plate and the scent of something fresh and sweet and not very cherry-like reached Stiles’ nose.

“Oh, thanks…are they—what are they?” Stiles asked, although his fingers were already reaching for one of the deep crimson little fruits. 

“They grow near my home,” Peter replied, quickly adding, “Not poisonous, I assure you. Some sort of hybrid, according to a horticulturist friend. Entirely edible for one such as yourself.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at the last part, but slipped the fruit between his lips and bit into it, releasing a mouthful of thick, sweet-tart liquid. The flavor teased his senses, half-familiar and instantly addictive. Stiles chewed slowly, looking down at the small, red stains on his fingertips from the fruit. 

“It’s really good,” Stiles murmured, and licked his lips. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” said Peter, but he didn’t offer Stiles any more. “I added a new section. Perhaps you’d like to see it?”

He guided Stiles again with a gentle hand to his back, and Stiles moved willingly, stopping only when Peter did in front of a new bookcase filled with graphic novels. 

Stiles looked up at Peter in surprise. “These weren’t here last time,” he said. 

“It was suggested to me that I might draw more customers if I expanded my offerings,” Peter responded. “Take your time if you’d like to examine them more closely.” 

Stiles nodded, already seeing several volumes he’d had trouble locating online. He lost an hour sorting through the collection, but he never forgot that Peter was in the same room. Eventually, Stiles made three selections and took them back over to Peter’s cash register. 

“Just these?” Peter asked. 

“There are more I want, I just….” Stiles took a deep breath and stared intently at the polished shine of the desk. “I want a reason to come back. I, uh, I like…the store.” 

“I’m happy to have you here,” Peter said smoothly, then gave Stiles the total. 

Stiles, unsure whether or not he’d just made an idiot of himself, fumbled for his wallet, managing to dump most of its contents out in the process. 

Peter made an amused sound and helped Stiles sort through the various cards and crumpled bills. He plucked Stiles’ driver’s license from the pile and looked it over for a moment.

Stiles saw the confused expression and forced a quick laugh as he tried to pull the card back. 

“Something wrong with the machine that day. They couldn’t get my name to print right. I’ve never had any trouble with it, though,” he explained, tugging at the license when Peter didn’t let go right away. 

“It says your first name is Mimmmhhhn,” Peter pointed out. “That is a significant printer error.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Technology. What can you do?” 

“Hmm.” Peter put Stiles’ books in a neat paper bag and held it out. “Did you say your mother called you Mischief?”

“Y-yeah.” Stiles stared at him. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

Peter waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve had many years to learn the trick of memory.” He smiled suddenly, and the way it brightened and intensified the perfect symmetry of his features made Stiles weak-kneed. 

“She…she called me that because it was the closest I could come to pronouncing her other name for me. When I was little, I mean. It was hard for me to say. Not that she didn’t have tons of other names for me. Sunflower, Peanut, Muffin….” Stiles trailed off, flushing as he ran his last few sentences back to himself and mentally winced. 

“I’m sure you were very special to her,” Peter said, leaning a little closer. Stiles inhaled roses and damp ground and something sharper, like sunlight on a blade. It was dizzying and he swayed into the edge of the desk for support. “What did she call her dear son, I wonder? Her mischievous little boy?”

“…Mietek,” Stiles whispered, hypnotized by the blue fire of Peter’s gaze. 

“Mietek,” Peter repeated, voice lingering on all the syllables. Stiles broke his gaze abruptly, aware that he was nearly close enough to kiss the bookstore owner, who was easily a decade—no, maybe more than a decade older. And also out of Stiles’ league. 

Stiles shifted back, a self-conscious excuse on his lips, ready to leave. Peter’s hand shot out to grip Stiles’ wrist and draw him back. 

“Not quite Mietek,” Peter said, voice velvety. “Not…quite.”

He kept his fingers around Stiles’ wrist and brought Stiles around the desk to stand in front of him. Stiles quivered, his instincts contradicting each other and Peter’s flower-and-earth smell rising all around him. He wanted to run, to break free and escape. He wanted to drown in the endless pools of Peter’s eyes. He wanted to press himself against Peter’s chest and stay with him forever. 

Peter caught Stiles’ chin between a cold finger and thumb, forcing Stiles to meet his gaze. 

“Now, my wayward lamb, today the payment has come due. The time of your birth has arrived, seventeen years to the moment. The games have been entertaining, but they are no longer necessary. You will tell me what she called you.”

“M-Mischief. Mietek—” Stiles wanted to look away, but he couldn’t move. 

“Try harder,” Peter urged, and Stiles felt the command soak into his skin, until he could only remember his mother’s quiet voice at his ear, the secret she breathed to him the day he was born. He never thought of it, couldn’t write it, couldn’t speak it. 

“I-I can’t—” Stiles panted. 

“She wove a very clever spell,” Peter said with a hint of admiration. “I imagine there’s a smear even on your birth certificate. No way to properly record your name, no way for you to tell anyone. It hid you for a very long time. And perhaps if she had lived, she could hide you still, even beyond the moment of payment. But, now that I have found you, touched you, fed you, the spells of a hedge witch are but cobwebs to my power.” His voice wrapped around Stiles, until all Stiles could hear was Peter. “Now. _What did she tell you?_ ”

“Mieczysław.” The name dropped from Stiles’ tongue and echoed around the room. 

The scent of white-hot metal intensified and Peter’s smile was all triumph. 

“ _Mieczysław,_ ” Peter said, and something missing slotted into Stiles’ heart. His muscles relaxed and he dropped to his knees, head bowed. 

The wooden flooring beneath him rippled and stretched, and in minutes Stiles was kneeling on verdant grass and clover. The air smelled of honeysuckle and apple blossoms, and the sun warmed his neck. Stiles raised his eyes to see he and Peter were in a lush paradise, with brightly colored birds singing from leafy-branched trees, and jewel-like flowers dotting the ground. 

On all sides rose the edges of a dark forest, where shadows moved independent of the daylight. Peter took Stiles’ hand and brought him to his feet, which Stiles saw in that moment were bare. 

“Come, pet,” Peter said, catching Stiles’ arm when he stumbled. 

“Where are we?” Stiles gasped. “What happened? Hallucinations? A gas leak?” Even as he tried a rational explanation, he knew it was impossible. When he really looked at Peter, he felt his grasp on the mundane world slip further. 

It was still _Peter_ , but also…more. The creature in front of Stiles was taller and stronger and even more icily beautiful than the man-shaped bookstore owner had been. Around his head was an expertly crafted crown of hawthorn branches and berries. He wore strange, clinging clothing of a material Stiles might have called leather, but it was more supple, conforming to the shape of Peter’s limbs as if it were alive. Although Stiles’ shoes and socks had disappeared, Peter had acquired tall boots molded to the powerful lines of his legs. 

Stiles peered down at his own body more closely. He appeared to have retained his t-shirt and jeans, but even as he gave faint thanks for small mercies, Peter prodded him toward a group of…Stiles termed them _overgrown pixies_ for lack of a better name. 

“Go on,” Peter encouraged him. “They will give you suitable attire.”

Stiles resisted, grabbing at Peter’s arm in desperation.

“Peter, what’s going on? Where am I?” 

“You have come home, Mieczysław,” Peter told him. “Home to my Court, as was intended from the beginning.” 

Stiles wanted to protest, to demand to be taken home, but when Peter’s deep voice said _Mieczysław_ , it was a command he would never resist. It melted his defiance and rendered him pliant. 

“We will return him soon, Majesty,” one of the pixies said, leading Stiles away. In that moment, his largest source of distress was being parted from Peter. 

Stiles reached out, but the pixies were not put off. He was taken to a shaded pool deeper in the forest, where the pixies scrubbed and trimmed and polished until Stiles felt as though half his skin and most of his body hair were gone. They gave him no more consideration than a doll they were dressing, and chattered in a language he’d never heard as they worked. 

When they finally brought Stiles back to Peter, he wondered if the king of the Court would recognize him. Stiles had hardly recognized himself when the pixies had urged him to look at himself in one of the smaller ponds. 

His skin was smooth everywhere, no trace of dry skin or stubble or imperfection; his dark head was wreathed in bluebells and ivy; and around his throat wound a collar of vines. There was a semi-transparent garment of something gossamer and filmy covering his body like clothing, but Stiles knew it was no better than nudity. 

Peter—or the king who had called himself Peter—sat on a throne of blackwood and antlers, fantastical courtiers of myriad shapes, sizes, and colors lounging in the courtyard before him. There were creatures with wings, some with horns, some with fangs; some were bestial, some reptilian; every myth Stiles had read, every fairy tale, seemed represented. The pixies, Stiles trapped in their midst, flitted up to the dais and pushed Stiles forward. 

“Mieczysław,” Peter greeted him, looking pleased and predatory. “You are as lovely as I had hoped.”

Stiles sank into the sound of his true name on Peter’s tongue. 

“You aren’t called Peter,” he said roughly, forcing the words out when what he yearned to do was beg Peter to tell him how to be pleasing. 

“A temporary name, like so many I’ve used.” 

“Who are you?” Stiles managed to dart a glance upward and met a fond tolerance in Peter’s cruelly handsome face. 

“The king of the Court.” A pause. “Your master. Mieczysław.” 

Stiles found himself once more on his knees, this time at Peter’s feet, his flower crown crushed into Peter’s knee. 

“Your mother bargained with me,” the king said, resting his hand briefly on Stiles’ head. “You were created to be mine. Always. You have not drawn a breath that did not belong to me. This is mine.” The king traced the contours of Stiles’ lips before pushing the same kind of dark-red fruit he’d eaten earlier into his mouth. Stiles, heeding the implicit order, ate it without complaint. 

“This, too, is mine,” the king continued, closing a long-fingered hand around Stiles’ throat and squeezing very gently. Stiles went limp against his master’s thigh. “Everything you are and will be belongs to the king of the Court.” 

Stiles was lifted to sit astride the king’s lap, back against his unyielding chest with legs spread. He let his head fall back while Peter—and even in his hazy state Stiles couldn’t help but think of him as Peter—ran cool hands down Stiles’ chest, pausing to rub small circles around peaked nipples while his too-sharp teeth nipped at Stiles’ exposed neck. 

Despite his fear and the surreal setting, despite the obvious danger and the inhuman company he was in, Stiles felt a flicker of arousal when Peter continued to tease and pluck at his nipples. Stiles closed his eyes against the sight of the courtiers’ interest and amusement, trying to ignore the murmurs and laughter all around him. 

Peter made it easier by drawing more of Stiles’ attention, putting his focus on the sensations forced on his body. The cool fingers slid down Stiles’ stomach, petting and sometimes pinching. Stiles quivered, feeling his cock fill with blood even though he wished fervently to be anywhere else. 

“That’s a good pet,” Peter murmured, sweet and remorseless. He wrapped his hand around Stiles until his prick had hardened, sliding up and down loosely in a teasing grip. Then, when Stiles was biting his lip to keep the small moans in, Peter dipped farther down, to the bare stretch of soft skin, where he stroked with practiced, coaxing motions before moving inward. 

One of Peter’s hands stayed between Stiles’ legs, rubbing and circling the small, puckered opening to his body, and the other hand pressed over Stiles’ chest to hold him steady. Peter paused in his ministrations to dip into the bowl of red-ripe fruits at his side. When he brought his arm back, his fingers were dripping with viscous, crimson syrup. Stiles made an involuntary whimper when he realized where it was going. 

Seconds later, Stiles felt Peter’s fingers, sticky with fluid, breach his body in a slow but steady push. The copious, slick fruit juice eased the path, but Stiles’ muscles resisted and he made a pained noise. 

“Submit to me, Mieczysław,” Peter whispered, his breath tickling the sensitive shell of Stiles’ ear and producing a shiver. At the words, Stiles’ muscles surrendered to Peter’s invasion, letting him in first by a finger, then by two. Peter worked him open gently but mercilessly, finding a spot inside that made Stiles jerk and moan, trapped fast against Peter’s chest. 

When Peter had Stiles supple and receptive, he shifted the boy with superhuman strength, bringing him down on his own waiting cock, leather-like clothing parted just enough to enable the king to claim his pet without dirtying himself. Stiles, full and invaded and caught, let loose a hoarse moan, feeling Peter’s ownership in every cell of his body. 

“Mieczysław, Mieczysław,” Peter sighed, satisfied and gloating. “What a beautiful gift you’ve turned out to be.” 

Stiles, pinned and splayed, found he could only make weak, clutching motions with his hands. He was desperate to bring himself pleasure, but his limbs were too heavy, weighed down by Peter’s desires and commands. 

The king used Stiles’ body effortlessly, working him up and down in a selfish rhythm that soon saw Peter filling Stiles with a hot gush of liquid before stilling. Stiles, tight and aching, whined and tried to thrust upward. Peter ignored the sound and deposited Stiles on the floor at his feet before wiping his sated prick with a piece of fine cloth one of the pixies brought him. 

The pixie’s appearance reminded Stiles that they were far from alone and he blushed fiercely, trying without much success to hide himself beneath his flimsy garments. His cock throbbed, but was already softening at the renewed sight of so many strange eyes. He pushed involuntarily into Peter’s hand when it carded carelessly through his hair, trying miserably to ignore the wetness leaking from his body.

The king arranged Stiles’ posture to his liking—kneeling with his head resting on his master’s knee, hands resting on his own thighs—then began to conduct what appeared to Stiles’ tired, overwhelmed perspective to be a long afternoon of music and dancing. 

Stiles fell into something of a trance, mesmerized by the whirling colors and the foreign-sounding melodies and the steady motion of Peter’s strong hands in his hair. He felt drugged and lulled into compliance, the dark-edged syllables of his name in Peter’s mouth haunting him. 

There was a thought hovering just out of reach, and Stiles breathed quietly for several minutes, letting it settle on him. 

_Every one of us, no matter how uncanny, is answerable to a true name._

Alan Deaton’s words, unwelcome and annoyingly vague at the time, came to Stiles then and he considered Peter thoughtfully from beneath his lashes. Everyone, Dr. Deaton had said. Every creature, every…king. 

Then Peter dipped his head to croon in Stiles’ ear. 

“This is your place, lovely boy. Mieczysław.” 

Stiles leaned into Peter’s lingering touch and felt his will crumble to dust once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and excerpt from Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's "Erlkönig." The title is from the Edgar Alfred Bowring translation. The Schubert piece based on the poem is pretty neat and worth checking out (Schubert wrote it when he was only eighteen!!!).
> 
> A writing note: I know Stiles and Peter are both kind of out of character here. I really struggled with writing this one.


End file.
